


The Quiet Room

by Punk_Kenobi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Been working on this for weeks, But I prefer it to be a deep camraderie, But idiot features tried to be scary, Gen, Not sure if successful, Psychological Horror, There's Johnlock there if you want to see it that way, This is beyond stupid, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_Kenobi/pseuds/Punk_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, so this is finally being put up. Yet another case of me being unhappy with it but fiddling with it for eternity won't help. This is for the AO3 Auction because I love AO3 so much I just had to do something for it. </p><p>I will say that I'm afraid I went away from the prompt I was given, Fleetwood, so please don't be angry if I did. I have a love of psychological horror and even paranormal horror kind of got shoved to the side. Basically the gist is that I took your "fun with isolation" comment far too seriously for my own good. Anyway, I hope you like it!</p><p>By the way, the title has a lot of...personal sentiment, just thought I should mention.</p><p>Anyway, usual "I did research but this isn't Britpicked" disclaimer. Usual "not beta'd" disclaimer.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Quiet Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleetwood mouse (rachelohrachel)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fleetwood+mouse+%28rachelohrachel%29).



> Okay, so this is finally being put up. Yet another case of me being unhappy with it but fiddling with it for eternity won't help. This is for the AO3 Auction because I love AO3 so much I just had to do something for it. 
> 
> I will say that I'm afraid I went away from the prompt I was given, Fleetwood, so please don't be angry if I did. I have a love of psychological horror and even paranormal horror kind of got shoved to the side. Basically the gist is that I took your "fun with isolation" comment far too seriously for my own good. Anyway, I hope you like it!
> 
> By the way, the title has a lot of...personal sentiment, just thought I should mention.
> 
> Anyway, usual "I did research but this isn't Britpicked" disclaimer. Usual "not beta'd" disclaimer.

_Investigation Report #09281_  
Security Level: Restricted to highest clearance levels  
Interrogation Session #: 4 of 4  
Subject: Mr. Sherlock Holmes  
Interrogator: DI Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard  
Assistant: Larsen North, RN, St. Andrew's Hospital  
Date: 9/18/12  
Time: 15:32 PM  
File type/size: Audio file, WAV, 325.61 MB 

_Below is a transcription of the audio found in the file._

\-----

_GL: Hello, Sherlock. I haven't seen you in a while. Maybe this time we can talk about the incident._

_[Tapping of fingertips heard]_

_LN: Perhaps try another tactic, Inspector._

_GL: ...can you tell me how you've been faring, Sherlock?_

_SH: Well._

_GL: Anything else? How's the hospital treating you?_

_SH: No._

_LN: Sherlock doesn't like discussing the hospital._

_[Silence]_

_GL: Well...let's get down to business and we'll get you out of here as quickly as possible. Can you explain to me what happened?_

_SH: A case, Lestrade. Isn't that how events usually begin with me?_

_GL: Well...yes, this did all start with a case. The Mrs. Whitman case, wasn't it? With the cat?_

_SH: I don't need to say it. Your investigation reports can be complete without my testimony, as I know as much as you do. Besides, I hardly remember most of it._

_LN: [Hushed voice] He's repressed all of what happened and refuses to speak about it....perhaps he will for you since he knows you and has had your help through...other incidents, as well._

_GL: Got it. It's a formality, Sherlock, so please humor me. What do you believe happened?_

_LN: Inspector..._

_SH: ........._

_GL: Sherlock....?_

_SH: ........._

_LN: Inspector, I don't think-_

_SH: [Sounds of a chair being pushed back roughly can be heard] Shut up, you maddening nanny! I can speak for myself, I'm not one of the invalids you clean spittle from back on the ward! [Clears his throat] Sorry, I was...distracted for a second. What do I believe happened? I'm not sure. I do not think I will ever be sure of what happened. But oh...oh, it was far more than a cat, I assure you._

\------------

"Sherlock, you need a case! You've been pacing around the flat day and night trying to sing bloody opera! It's not very good, might I add." 

The elderly woman, going by the name of Mrs. Whitman, sitting in their living room was clearly uncomfortable, bordering on anxious. John was trying to stay calm for her sake but his maddening flatmate frayed at his nerves and his voice raised from the bedroom where Sherlock refused to leave, clad in nothing but his blue robe.

The mess of dark curls moved slightly from under the duvet cover of the bed. "John, you know as well as I do that this is a stupid case! A missing cat? It's easily replaced at the RSPCA shelter for fifty pounds. There's far too many strays and I'd even give her the bloody fifty quid myself."

John couldn't believe it. Pressing fingers to his temples, he ground out a response. "I know you're not too fond of sentiment, Sherlock, but some and many people actually have attachments to their pets. You need to get out of the flat, you've holed yourself here long enough, you're going out. No questions."

And the next day, they were on a train bound for Cumbria.

The woman was from a tiny village hidden in the woods southeast of Grasmere. No more than a hundred people lived there and the town was halfway towards becoming abandoned anyhow. The homes were still inhabitable but there were vines growing up the siding and Sherlock dated the houses back to the late 1800's or so. The semi-dilapidated facades certainly showed their ages. 

The villagers themselves, on their part, were quite...withdrawn. Most would consider them simply keeping to their own business but Sherlock had a feeling they were hiding something, as they often turned away when he looked in their direction. Normally he didn't consider feelings a valid tool in detective work and this was no exception. He tried talking to some of the people about the woman's cat and the woman herself, but all he received were looks of feigned confusion and non-recognition before their hasty departures. They would talk to John, however, with hushed mumbling, mentioning long-dead relatives who knew someone who knew someone who went missing. Perhaps it was simply John's....sentimental nature that made him appear more friendly. Sherlock could do without that.

There was something amiss here.

\-------------

Sherlock and John were eventually led to the home of the old woman by a young boy who seemed almost terrified at the prospect of even getting close to the building. It was....understandable, Sherlock surmised, even though it was an illogical fear. Children often had those. The home looked just as run-down as the others, but there was little sign of an inhabitant. The other homes had rocking chairs on porches, a welcome mat, or a line of Wellington boots next to the front door. This porch was bare and the door handle looked as if it hadn't been touched in months, if not years. What really piqued Sherlock's interest was the large, black graffiti all over the building's exterior, with Celtic crosses, Stars of David, among other religious symbols. More abstract drawings such as suns and moons and trees and hearts were present as well. Messages of all languages were scrawled in sloppy handiwork.

"Are you sure this is the place, boy?" 

The boy nodded, looking at the front door with abject fear. "I-It is, Mister. But...but...you shouldn't go in there."

Sherlock was slightly baffled. "Why not?"

The boy gestured for him to kneel and when he did, albeit reluctantly and after receiving a look from John, the boy whispered in his ear.

"There's a monster in there. My...my brother went in there. He didn't come back. The monster got him, Mister."

Sherlock thought about this, then looked at John before turning back to the child. "What happened? Tell me everything." 

The child looked at both of them before backing away slightly, the looming presence of the house finally making him tremble. "I-I have to go, or...or Mum's going to be really cross with me." 

As the boy ran, Sherlock sighed. "John, this is ridiculous."

"How? What did he tell you?" John replied, confused.

"He told me there's a monster in the house. Utter nonsense."

\--------

"We haven't found out anything, Mr. Holmes, no prints or any sign that these kids were even there. The house is just that, no secret torture basements or anything like that, and it's like...the kids just disappeared out of thin air around Mrs. Whitman's home. But it's a normal home, nothing out of sorts about it." 

The police weren't any more helpful than the young boy. All they told Sherlock was that there had been disappearances, always at night. Even then, that information was given to Sherlock and John very reluctantly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. There had to be some sign of their presence. "Do you really expect me to believe that? Really? No one disappears without a trace."

After a few minutes of terse answers and vague hints of various disappearances, Sherlock gave up. These men were idiots. Leaving the small station, Sherlock looked to his flatmate. "We're visiting this house tonight."

John stopped in his tracks, his gaze darting around a tad before he turned his gaze to the pavement beneath his feet. "Sherlock, are you sure that's wise? We don't have a warrant, we'd be breaking the law-"

Sherlock turned around, giving him a calculating look.

"Are you afraid of the house, John? Even after all this time as my assistant, your cynicism hasn't dulled that irrationality? How disappointing. We're going. You wanted me to take this case, so I'm going along with it. Wait outside for all I care. It's an elderly woman's house, nothing more."

Besides, he'd done plenty of things to break the law. What's one more? John always followed him through any scheme of his, there were very few Sherlock could count that John had taken no part in.

\-------

Later on that evening, Sherlock pulled on the black leather gloves that kept his fingerprints shrouded as he first knocked on the door before picking the lock.

"John, stay out here and watch for the police or any naysayers. Keep yourself inconspicuous so as to not draw attention. No doubt you'll prefer being out here anyhow."

_A cloud of dust billowed at Sherlock's feet as he opened the door, which took some force, as if it hadn't been used in years. Dust had accumulated on every available surface, no surprise, and cobwebs were rampant. Sherlock pulled the collar of his jacket up and wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose to keep some of the dust away, unsure of the qualities of the particles floating about in the air. Perhaps he should have brought a mask, asbestos was often used in insulation of homes this old._

_The detective inspected all the surfaces of the sitting room, though the dust obliterated any other traces of human presence. The technology, while of an era that someone like the old woman would have used, hadn't been touched. The rust building on the television set made turning the knobs impossible. The aerial had broken off long ago. The lamps on the end tables were haphazardly knocked over, lightbulbs cracked and broken. The sofa had broken in two, hand-woven blankets covering it only slightly, as there were plenty of holes in them. Picture frames hung askew on the walls, some were even on the floor, glass covers cracked from the impact with the hard floor. Torn Polaroids were scattered about._

_This clearly wasn't a home for anyone in the past fifty years. Perhaps even longer._

_Sherlock was about to leave when he noticed a light coming from a door he perceived to have led to a basement. Vandals, no doubt the adolescents responsible for the vandalism wishing to scare the locals and those passing through for a cheap thrill. Stepping carefully over to the door, he turned on a flashlight he'd brought with him. Sherlock opened the door and headed down the stairs, ready to apprehend the punks and then ask what brand of spray paint they used, for the graffiti held its color well in the damp, forested environment and would be a good choice for an experiment he had going back at the flat._

\-----------

John fiddled idly with his watch, looking at the time. How long was Sherlock going to spend in that place? The sky had turned from a dark purple to a deep blue as time passed and Sherlock still hadn't returned. What could have fascinated him so much in an abandoned, creepy home? Listening to the small bit of music he kept on his phone, John waited.

After two hours, he was concerned. He was far from superstitious but he was still reluctant as he knocked at the door. Luckily, there was a light on in the window upstairs, so perhaps the woman was home and was discussing the cat's disappearance with Sherlock. Peering through a window, John examined the sitting room. It looked a bit ramshackle but nothing odd, mainly quaint. The TV was on and tuned to the evening news, various throw pillows and afghans lined the cozy-looking couch. Lamps with painted lilacs and mermaids on them cast a warm glow on the room. Black and white pictures of young people lined the walls, then Polaroids from the sixties or seventies, judging by the attire.

All in all, a typical place for an elderly woman to live.

John nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice resounded from out of the darkness from behind the door.

"Who's there? What are you doing here?"

"It's just me, John Watson. Sherlock and I were just investigating your lost cat is all. Is he around?" 

The woman looked confused as she opened the door to let him in, as it was devilishly cold out. "What do you mean? I haven't seen Mr. Holmes at all, I-I was just knitting before bed. Do you need something? Come on in, don't want you catching cold, Dr. Watson."

John couldn't respond, it was as if his throat had closed. Where was he, then?

\---------

_Sherlock wasn't sure where he was. He'd woken up, head throbbing and mind addled, in what seemed like a cell of some sort. The last thing he remembered was the stairs collapsing from under his feet, to be expected of a decrepit house such as the one he was in. Still he expected to hit solid concrete, maybe boxes of old junk, not to wake in such a dark place. He expected to have John looming over him, that irritating look of concern marring the typically cool and collected visage of his best assistant. He was sure there was a loud clatter and racket as he fell, so where was John when he needed him?_

_The first thing he did was test each joint, each muscle and bone, for injury. Nothing aside from the throbbing in his head and a slight ache in his wrist. Not broken, merely sprained, minimal severity. His head, however, felt like a railroad spike being jammed into his frontal lobe. Likely concussion, moderate severity. Monitor periodically for changes in behavior. Sherlock thought the diagnoses but they were in John's clinical voice, which he'd heard countless times before._

_He noticed a chain around his wrist and ankle, which meant someone had to have put him there. As if on cue, Sherlock looked up as he heard a loud thud outside the door. Someone had thrown something at the door. Given the resounding clang the object gave off, it was likely something metal. The reverberations echoed in his head, amplifying the pain. Grimacing, he put a hand to his temple._

_This was highly inconvenient._

_Sherlock began thinking of a way out. There was always a way out of chains or handcuffs and cells always had some weak point. He examined what he could of the room, as it was nearly pitch black in the cell aside from a tiny window in the corner. Sherlock wondered what was outside of that window, but the chains weren't long enough for him to look out._

_Sherlock could do nothing else but wait and think, and so he did._

\----------

John left the house in a daze after a cup of tea, heading back to the inn they were staying at. Sherlock had disappeared for days on cases before, it shouldn't have been so unnerving. John remembered one time where he hadn't come back for a week. That was rather stressful. John was always worried about having to cover his flatmate's ass because he was too focused on his work to do that himself. Sometimes John tried to rationalize these feelings of protectiveness into something slightly less abstract but love was not the right term. Perhaps it was his army doctor instincts to protect, serve, and keep Sherlock safe.

Perhaps the feeling was of a protective nature. Sherlock was so reckless, no care for his self-preservation aside from the bare instinct found in even the lowest animal. Throwing himself in front of murderers and rapists and kidnappers day in and day out, Sherlock somehow managed to stay alive with only bruises and cuts and the occasional broken rib or limb to show for his success. Someone had to make sure he didn't die of starvation since Sherlock rarely ate of his own volition unless John was eating in front of him. Often times he wouldn't even eat then, either, as eating in restaurants often coincided with cases. 

There might not have been any feelings of amour behind his protective tendencies but there was still a strong, emotional connection. That connection, while slightly weaker on Sherlock's end, was something that held both of them together. John believed in Sherlock, believed that he would return. He always did.

John felt a surge of that protective nature while he dialed 999 four days later. Sherlock may have thought the police were useless but it was the last resort the average layman had to find a missing person.

\---------

_There was a blindfold on him. Whoever it was that held him captive had put it on, likely while he'd been sleeping. The little bit of light he'd seen from the window was gone, inky blackness left in its wake. There wasn't the feeling of fabric on his eyes, however. When Sherlock tried to open his eyes, an excruciating pain wracked him._

_Sherlock was never afraid of the dark, even as a child, and it helped him reach his Mind Palace easier. He spent his days in his Palace....but were they days? The darkness of the blindfold didn't allow for Sherlock to note the passage of time. The only way he could tell time was even a factor was when staying in his Palace became increasingly difficult as the familiar, gnawing feeling in his stomach started up. Food, only necessary for his transport. Of course. Asking for food would be silly, as Sherlock knew his captor would feed him or not of their own volition._

_Luckily, Sherlock found a cup of unknown liquid beside him. He was wary of drinking it as the contents could be anything but he had to risk it to keep hydrated. Otherwise, his existence here would be even shorter-lived. Sniffing it, Sherlock found no errant odors and risked a small sip to taste for poisons. None he could find. Seemed to be plain water. At least he'd be hydrated. He could survive longer with adequate hydration, that was for sure._

_"Hello."_

_Sherlock would never admit it, but the sudden voice coming out of the silent void had startled him slightly. He'd heard no footsteps, no sign of another person approaching. Perhaps they were adept at stealth._

_"Are you comfy? We would love to make our newest guest at home while he thinks."_

_Sherlock snorted. "Comfortable while abducted, chained to a wall, and hungry? Even an imbecile could answer that question."_

_His captor chuckled. "Do not become snide with us. We don't like it."_

_"You keep using plural pronouns. Are there more of you? Or are you simply a schizophrenic? Oh right, you wouldn't be, or so you'd say, as a schizophrenic often doesn't know they-"_

_Sherlock felt a sharp, burning pain at his lips, as if they were being cauterized shut, quiet chuckling in the background. Trying to squirm away was futile as he felt thin, waif-like hands hold his upper arms, shoulders, and face where they were. The hands felt barely there aside from the strength they were exerting by keeping him still. There shouldn't have been that many hands, there wasn't anyone else here. Unless they were equally adept at stealth as his main captor. Sherlock could feel a sharp pin prick along with....a rough fiber passing over his lips._

_They were sewing his mouth shut._

_"Belief would save you but you don't believe in anything. Your mind is the only thing keeping you here, where even the strongest skeptics have been broken. You will believe in time, and only then will you be truly free."_

_Sherlock soon felt his grip on consciousness fading, feeling the dripping of blood over his mouth and tasting the copper tang inside, his head thudding incessantly. Even so, the hands held him steady so his captor could finish its task as his mind slowed to a halt for the time being, the cup of water falling from his fingers._

\--------------

"I'm telling you, he went missing a week ago! Isn't that, you know, a concern of yours?!"

John couldn't believe it. These local policemen were even more doltish than they first appeared. They wouldn't even look for Sherlock, as they were currently tied up in other affairs and the futility of the other disappearances had put them off the idea of yet another search. John was at wit's end with them.

"I'm sorry, sir, but he's likely just like the others." the chief of the station said tersely as he completed paperwork.

John hadn't slept well after the third day and his temper was wearing thin. "Alright....alright. I'll call my friends from Scotland Yard and they'll find him, I know it, they can't function without their-" 

The chief of police slammed his hands on his desk, making John flinch. "You will do no such thing, you hear me? We have looked for many before Mr. Holmes and nothing has come of our efforts. Dragging your friends that far out here will yield no better results. All it does is waste valuable time and money." 

John chuckled, truly amused, for the first time in days, throwing up his hands. "No one seems to want to say anything about the disappearances, they don't like talking about Mrs. Whitman...it's as if you're trying to cover this whole damn thing up. But for what reason? I haven't got a bloody clue but I'll find out."

With that, John left, the yelling from the chief of police nothing more than a static buzz in his ears. First thing he did when out of range of the station was call Lestrade. 

"John? How's the case going? I'm sure Sherlock's bored sti-"

John cut him off. "Sherlock's gone, Greg. Disappeared...just like the rest."

"The rest? I thought this was just a cat!"

"No, there's more of them. Young kids, teens, adults...and Sherlock. The police here won't tell me anything, I think they're covering them up."

There was silence for a moment, clearly the detective inspector was mulling over the situation.

"I'll be on my way, John."

\--------------

_Next to Sherlock was a skeleton, chained to the wall just as he was. He remembered the appearance of it, even now when he couldn't see. The bones were covered in threadbare rags which, at one time, had been rather nice attire, if cheap. Indicative of lower class, likely bought on a whim, looked to be of nineteenth century make, perhaps early twentieth._

_[Male, mid-twenties, 5'9", Alpine cranial shape and features indicating Western European genetics-]_

_The voice spoke to him in a quiet manner this time, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought._

_"The man didn't believe in us. Didn't believe in anything, just like you. He thought he didn't and by the time he figured out what he did believe in, it was too late. He had little will to live, anyhow, even before being our guest. Many others have gone the same way. Do you want to die as well?"_

_Sherlock felt the lightweight touch of the hands again, though this time they trickled some tepid water in between the stitches in his mouth. The taste in his mouth was foul but Sherlock could easily ignore it, for the water was better than nothing. The water was keeping him alive. Of course he couldn't respond aside from a negative grunt and a shake of his head._

_"Then why do you not believe?"_

_He was beyond frustrated at this point, the twisting feeling in his gut only stoking the smouldering hatred growing in him. What did they want him to believe in? A god or gods? Salvation? What was this supposed to be teaching him? Why did they care whether he lacked belief? Growling low in his throat, Sherlock lunged as far as the chains would allow, blindly grasping with his free hand for a figure that was...not there. Nothing was in front of him. Where was his captor? There had to be a sign, there had to be some semblance of his captor's presence._

_Pressed back to the wall by the hands, struggling all the while in their grasp, Sherlock glared. He couldn't speak, he couldn't see, what else were they going to do to him?_

_"Silence is the only way you will learn. Through silence you will find your belief. See no evil, speak no evil, and hear no evil."_

_And then Sherlock's world went quiet with a searing feeling._

_Sherlock loved silence, reveled in it in fact. In as busy a city as London, no one could ever attain true silence. In London his mind was constantly assaulted by the rabble of cars, pedestrians, TV and the media, so many things that muddled his brain and occasionally sent him into hastily hidden fits of over-stimulation. Sherlock craved true silence._

_Until he heard a laugh. A low chuckle, one that was familiar. Barely audible._

_Except his hearing was taken away, wasn't it?_

_Where was John? Had John truly abandoned him?_

\------------

Lestrade showed up within the next forty-eight hours. This was of the highest importance, as one of the world's best detectives suddenly disappearing without a trace certainly meant nothing good. But then again, when did Sherlock attract anything but trouble? John was assured that Mycroft was alerted to his younger brother's disappearance, as John knew that not only could Mycroft arrange for more....astringent methods of searching to be done, but also that it was his brother. Sherlock and Mycroft held the most impersonal relationship John had seen of two siblings, but even though the two of them mutually decided to throw sentiment and care for each other out the window, he should know. Perhaps Mycroft would feel at least a little bit of concern.

"Alright, I've spoken to the chief of police. He was a right bastard but told me that about forty have gone missing in the town's history, and there's likely unrecorded disappearances as well from even farther back." Lestrade told John after a good hour of arguing. 

"And? What are we to do?" John was desperate at this point, running on nothing but cups and cups of coffee and tea and the anxiety pushing adrenaline into his system.

Lestrade simply put a hand to his forehead. "Well....Mycroft mentioned something about sending search crews out to have them inspect the entire local area, but there's just not much to go on, John. Either we find him, he finds his way to us, or..."

Neither one wanted to finish the sentence and really, it wasn't necessary. 

The detective put a hand on John's shoulder. "Go on back to your hotel, John. Get some rest. You won't be much help to us if you keel over."

John knew this was true. Not only medically but in terms of common sense. With a heavy sigh, John nodded and promised to call him when he woke up, heading back to the hotel, a slight limp in his step returning. He wished it wouldn't but he knew there was only one reason why it would return and John did not want to think about what that meant.

\-----------

_He'd been here for an interminable amount of time. Sherlock didn't know why he had done this, thinking on the matter. That's all he could do in between hearing laughter and cries and screams when he knew they shouldn't be there. He could hear muttering and yelled oaths in French, Urdu, Thai, all known languages and some Sherlock could tell were gibberish. They shouldn't be in his mind, that was impossible. That voice, it was there, too, the one he'd been longing to hear, even after his stomach stopped hurting and the dull aches in his body were drowned out by the water shoved through his lips and the words from the familiar voice growing increasingly harsh, telling him he couldn't get out, that he was all a fraud, his skills were nothing._

_[But they are...they are, you can't even get out of a simple locked room, where once you could do so in a matter of seconds...]_

_He didn't know why he had gone along with this entire sodding plan._

_[John, John was why you went with the plan. You always listen to John. And John says you're worthless but you listen to him anyway...]_

_He could be solving cold cases or badgering Lestrade for more recent and active cases, tugging at the cuffs on his wrist and ankle feebly, his energy waning._

_[You're a case now, one of the people you'd be looking for. You know Lestrade is looking, the dedicated man who helped to pull you from the quagmire of drugs and sex you'd gotten into so long ago...but is he? Is he really? All the way back in London, are you so sure he even knows you're gone? Would Mycroft even be concerned or would he sit back behind his desk with his gluttonous array of sweets Anthea always gives him and stuff his fat face while you sit here wasting away and eager to be free...]_

_He was going mad but Sherlock wanted to put that off as long as possible. Sherlock heard a slight click in the back of his brain, the chains finally unlocking for him. Sweet mercy, the chains were off._

_[Mad, mad as a hatter, Mad Hatter, character from Alice in Wonderland, written by Lewis Caroll, pseudonym for Charles Dodgson, hatters often went mad due to the mercury used, Hg, atomic number 80...]_

_He needed his mind perfectly intact, crawling on all fours in the dark and silence, crawling towards what he didn't know._

_["Perfection is achieved only on the point of collapse," C. Northcote Parkinson, naval historian, author of Parkinson's Law....]_

_Why had he done this? Bumping into a wall, Sherlock knew he'd let out some pained sound that he couldn't hear, only the cacophony of sounds from the tortured souls of a million others._

_[Why does anyone do anything? There's always a reason, nothing happens spontaneously, except all of this, nothing of this makes any sense, there's no basis for reason in being stuck in this dark abyss, cause and effect have no meaning here, oh, why won't there be light....]_

_Oh right. He didn't have much choice, now did he? Sherlock used what little sense he had to feel around, his crawling growing slower and slower until exhaustion took over him, his hand resting on something firm and. He knew the texture but he couldn't remember the name for it, not when the voices were louder and the yelling becoming more frantic._

_[No, never, you never had a choice because John wished it, John pushed you into the case and you went with it because you care about him too much, caring is not an advantage but you still care, you still believe in his intelligence and you want him to come bursting through the door, you know he will, he always does, telling you it'll be alright, you'll be out of here soon, you won't die in such a blank place, calling your name, you believe in John, you believe, you believe, you believe...]_

_The firm object was replaced by a hand. Not the skeletal ones he'd grown used to, one with substance, weight, warmth. Calluses, many of them, gained by working with guns, he could tell by the placement. Hands roughened by sand, by war, by the rough texture of the handle of a cane long since abandoned..._

_[There you are....there's where your belief lies.]_

_Sherlock laughed. He knew he did, even if he couldn't hear it, the pain of his lips and the trickling feeling of blood and spittle on his chin was indication enough. He believed._

_He could go home._

\----------

John practically lived in the hospital for the next few weeks as Sherlock recovered. The wounds on him were all self-inflicted, even the stitches haphazardly sewn into his mouth, the burns on his eyes and ears, the wounds on his wrist and ankle. It'd take some time for his sight to return and it would likely be far worse than the 20/20 vision Sherlock had had prior, but it'd be something. His hearing would be dulled, but still there. His mouth would be fine, though there would be permanent scarring. John knew there was a space at a private psychiatric hospital waiting for him, and John knew Sherlock would be adamant that he was fine, but no one went through such trauma without effects. John knew Sherlock would need help.

He didn't know what happened. Sherlock had crawled out of the door of Mrs. Whitman's home two weeks after disappearing, utterly emaciated and obviously high on something, laughing at nothing and trying to scream through the stitches while being carted off in an ambulance. The woman, on her part, had no knowledge of Sherlock even being there, and John knew he hadn't been, either. The home had been searched thoroughly by police and even some men that Mycroft sent. Still, Mrs. Whitman was kept in custody for a while which she calmly understood, given the circumstances, as if she'd been through the process before. She likely had been, with the plethora of disappearances prior and her age.

Looking back on it, John could have sworn he'd seen a large, black cross drawn in spray paint on the side of her home around the tenth day. Maybe it was a sign, something to tell him to keep believing in Sherlock. In the end, he came back. 

Sherlock always came back.

\------------

_GL: Thank you, Sherlock. I-I know it must have been hard to talk about-_

_SH: It wasn't. It's what you asked for. It's what I believe happened. John believed in me._

_SH: ......._

_SH: ....and I believed in him. And I came back._

_GL: And we're very glad you did. You're invaluable to us._

_SH: I know._

_[End of audio]_


End file.
